I’ve been thinking about death quite a lot recently. Not death as in actual death but rather the termination of my existence. I’d like to think that I died a long time ago— when Rosie died, when my parents got divorced, when the abuse got worse, when I decided to separate myself from everyone else to the point where I was constantly floating in some sort of dissociative state. But that’s not true and I know it’s not true because I still have a love for certain things. Or maybe passion is a better word— I don’t really remember what it feels like to love nor to be loved. Or maybe I’m not focusing on the right word, maybe ‘love’ wasn’t the problem, maybe the problem was ‘things’. Maybe there’s something wrong with the fact that only on paper and pen am I able to find some sort of sanity, or that only in the blazing heat of a fire am I able to feel alive.
I’m not dead but I’m not quite alive either— it’s like Im standing in a shower soaked in gasoline trying to decide whether I should light a match or not.